MAKING HER BID FOR STARDOM : Woodward and Bernstein Ain’t Got Nothin’ on Cagney and Lacey

The entire time I worked as a journalist in Washington, I resisted catching Potomac Fever. That infectious malady distorts the brain so that those stricken, often members of Congress but also government groupies, are unwilling to leave the swamplike climate for healthier places. In short, they go native.

Moving to California, I’ve also avoided going Hollywood. No rhinestone sunglasses, no projects in development, no poolside deals. I’m an editorial writer, above that crass coveting of fame or fortune. Unlike the valet parking attendant or the waitress, I’ve not been writing a screenplay or dreaming of stardom.

Until now.

It’s all my friend Kathy Hendrix’s fault. She was lining up volunteers to wait on tables at a fund-raising event for the Downtown Women’s Center that Jill Halverson runs on Los Angeles Street. Part of the fund-raising would be a silent auction in which people write their bids on a clipboard for a series of prizes during the course of the evening; one of the prizes was a walk-on part in “Cagney and Lacey.” That did it. Stars flashed in my eyes.

I like Cagney and Lacey. Not only do I like it, I am an out-and-out fan, just from a purely escapist entertainment standpoint. Some people like “Dynasty.” I prefer “Falcon Crest” for Jane Wyman’s sneers, but I faithfully tune in “Cagney and Lacey” for wit and occasional wisdom.

I’ve also just finished teaching a course at USC on women and the media. My students and I agreed that this show, albeit about cops to fill the requisite adventure quotient, portrays women as real people with real problems. Chris Cagney loved a man who decided to go back to his estranged wife, who seemed a decent sort. Mary Beth Lacey was afraid to see a doctor about a lump in her breast. Sometimes they have problems talking about their problems, sometimes they kid around; they have in-jokes, they fret about their fathers or their sons. My Tuesday night class capsule reports on Monday night’s plot lines became our little in-joke in Journalism 467.

So this invitation now became tempting. Thoughts of how much I’d be willing to pay in the auction to get on the set quickly were supplanted by daydreams of what part I’d want to play. I mean, if I wanted it enough, I’d pay what it takes. It’s for a good cause--the Women’s Center provides warm friendship as well as warm food for women of Skid Row. And if I am going after fame and fortune, I may as well go for it on my favorite show. I want just the right role, huh, Harve?

Newspaper reporter? Cagney and Lacey emerge from a building where they’ve discovered a grisly killing. I step up with a real reporter’s notebook--no fake props for me--and ask them to describe the scene. They say they’d like to help but I have to talk to Commander Booth.

A cop on the beat? Cagney and Lacey race up to the scene where I have the killer pinned down in an dead-end alley. It’s their case and they make the collar.

An eye witness? Cagney and Lacey are chasing a suspect. “He went thataway.” Great lines never die.

A hooker? This was a friend’s suggestion. Some friend.

A public defender? Veronica Hamel may have established an unmatchable standard for that part already.

The mayor? Cagney and Lacey get a commendation. I present it to them. Wouldn’t that be a great little statement? Dianne Feinstein, move over. But wait a minute. I’m getting out of my depth.

Finally, it comes to me. A bag lady. Of course. The women at the Women’s Center, who are pretty darn smart when it comes to survival, can coach me. They could make sure I had the proper props. I’d wander in to the precinct house looking for help. My Social Security check has been stolen. That is what happens, after all. Please, Cagney and Lacey, can’t you help me?

They would, I know it. They wouldn’t let Detective Isbecki horn in on the case. They wouldn’t let the Sergeant take bets on how much the check was worth. They wouldn’t let the Lieutenant pull them off the case until they solved it. They’ll help. They’re Cagney and Lacey.

Postscript: I started the bidding at $100. Someone wrote $120. After my $140 bid, I watched. I’d make the last bid. $700. $820. Then some guy wrote down $1,000. $1,000! At that moment I knew someone else was going to get the part. This was Big Time, and I’m just a bit player. It went for $2,000. Poised on the edge of stardom, I had my dreams shattered.

But I didn’t flinch. I didn’t cry. Cagney and Lacey would have been proud.

Mills remains an editorial writer for The Times.